


We're Only Liars (But We're The Best)

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: the helpless duology [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha America (Hetalia), Alpha Canada (Hetalia), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega England (Hetalia), Omega France (Hetalia), One Night Stands, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-30 04:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15743958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: Love him fiercely, love him selflessly, love him unconditionally, even as he hurts others who try to fix you before he shatters every piece of you. Stay by his side even as he digs the knife deeper into your heart—don’t leave me, Arthur, please, don’t, I need you—pick up the pieces of your shattered soul. And love him even still as he breaks you over and over andoveragain.





	1. you've got your demons / and darling, they all look like me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alifeasvivid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/gifts), [gallifreyanlibertea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyanlibertea/gifts).



> the second part of the helpless duology. i've been questioned quite a few times regarding the prequel, _Say No To This_ , and i promise, everything will be answered here, in _We're Only Liars (But We're The Best)_. 
> 
> special thanks to ein_nachkussen, Ami V, and Mai Saito (PangaeaWritesShit) for their help in either beta reading or the very conceptualization of this story. thank you very much! ^_^
> 
> this chapter's title comes from the song, _Sad Beautiful Tragic_ by Taylor Swift.

Enough is enough.

Arthur closes his eyes, curling his fingers round the spine of the poor paperback in his hands. _In and out, Arthur,_ he reminds himself. _Inhale and exhale—you’re fine, you’ll be fine, nothing is wrong, nothing will ever go wrong._

He nearly laughs at himself with how used he’s become to all of his lies. _(Liar, liar, can’t you see? I love you so, why do you keep hurting me?)_

He bites his lip, the soft sound of giggles and even softer sounds of kissing meeting his ears and drives him to shift uncomfortably in his seat a couple of bookshelves away from the 'couple'. He swallows thickly, ignoring the burn of tears, the pitying whispers—but the barely audible moans call his attention the most.

"Oh, Al— _Al, don't—"_ the shift and rustle of cloth, another giggle and a corresponding laugh turning into a particularly loud moan. "Al, we really shouldn't— _oh—"_

He gets to his feet, the screech of his chair dragging along the tiles attracting curious eyes and gossip-mongering mouths. He murmurs a faint, "Excuse me," and swiftly makes his way out of the library.

Arthur knows he shouldn't feel this way, he really shouldn't, and yet he does. 

He can't help himself. 

He rubs at his eyes with the back of his free hand as he briskly walks down the halls in search of someplace away from all the prying gazes and whispers.

"He wasn't mine," he murmurs beneath his breath as he weaves through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and mocking jeers. "Alfred was never mine to begin with."

The omega ignores them all as he bursts through the doors at the end of the hall, making his way through the paths until he reaches a relatively secluded nook tucked near the ill-kept grotto at the edge of the institute’s campus, located opposite the hub of activity that is the administrative building. 

It is a remnant of times gone by, reminiscent of the days before the Mages had come to be and gradually resolved the recurring conflicts between the States. Built of time-worn marble stained and damaged by the years, it looks dreary and abandoned, often rumored to have been haunted by a particularly sorrowful spirit. A lone statue of a woman stands upon a pedestal in the very middle of the grotto. She wears a cloak over a tunic which flows down her form, and what little of her features unobscured by grime is set into an expression of peaceful repose. 

Arthur takes a seat mere yards from the foot of the pedestal, drawing his shoulders up and his arms wrapping around himself. He breathes in deep, his eyes still pricking with the threat of tears. 

He should have known to keep his distance. He already knew that agreeing to that stupid, stupid proposal between him and his childhood friend would come to this, but Arthur is a fool.

He is foolishly, _selflessly_ in love, and he can’t do a damn thing about it now.

Time passes him by, counted down by the periodic buzzing of his phone and the shift and rustle of leaves in the wind, sometimes overshadowed by the burst of laughter and shouts from students bypassing the grotto. Arthur keeps to himself there, even as the tears which swept past his control have long since dried and he’s already skipped all of his classes for the day. 

They all only contained boring orientations, dry greetings between teachers old and new, and perhaps even insincere introductions between peers, after all. Arthur hadn’t the energy for such insignificant matters for now, though he’s sure to be hunted down by his professors later on. 

The crunch of grass beneath a pair of moderately well-kept sneakers draws his attention, and he looks up to meet the view of a tumbler of tea in front of him. A wisp of steam curls off of its covered top, suggesting that it had been steeping for merely a couple of minutes or so.

Quietly, he reaches out to take it, curling his ink-stained fingers around the comforting warmth as the other man sits down beside him. They remain in silence for a moment or two, a rarity for the two of them whenever they are in the company of one another. Arthur picks at the lid of the tumbler with little to no urge to even take a sip of the tea, resisting the urge to sniffle. After a while, he sets it down on the grass.

Finally, his fellow omega shifts, and a sigh leaves his lips, stirring the shoulder-length locks of his blond hair. “It’s Alfred again, isn’t it.”

Arthur says nothing in reply, and when the wind blows, he detects the acrid scent of disappointment laced with concern. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Francis has shifted in order to look at him directly as he twists and curls the rubber band around his finger.

He lets it go, and it strikes against the already reddened flesh of his wrist with a satisfying snap. He doesn’t even wince at the pain it brings him—nothing can ever compare to the pain of the inevitable he knows will happen again, and soon.

 _“Mon ami,_ you know that this mustn’t go on any longer,” the omega whispers. Arthur only curls the band tighter around his finger, pulling it farther back than his previous attempt and imbuing it with a small amplification spell to maximize the pain from the impact, before letting it go. 

This time, the band actually digs into his wrist, leaving a barely noticeable cut where it hits. Beads of blood soon appear after a brief while, but still Arthur doesn’t say a word. 

Francis takes his injured arm in return, swatting away Arthur’s half-hearted attempts to ward him off from casting a healing spell upon the cut. Once it’s all over, and the once abused skin returns to its scar-ridden pallor, the elder omega curls his fingers into flesh, preventing the younger from withdrawing his arm. 

“Look at you,” Francis says, and oh, there’s the steely edge to his voice which bites deep into Arthur’s defenses that Arthur has borne witness to one too many times before. “Why can’t you see that you’re only hurting yourself more whenever you allow him back into your bed?” 

His fingers dig even deeper. His grip is firm but never hurtful—as if he knows, all too well, that he doesn’t need to inflict more pain upon an already suffering man. 

Arthur can feel his fingers beginning to tremble against his skin, his grip loosening before it finally falls away in surrender. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Francis asks softly, and Arthur looks up at him to meet his unreadable gaze.

“It’s only been two weeks since the last time,” he continues, “only two weeks since Michelle dumped him after he cheated on her with some Rosenian hussy he met at some party or other.” 

Francis swallows thickly, his hands curling into fists, and Arthur is reminded of the way Alfred had clung to him that night between the sheets, whispering words which had long since etched themselves into his memory.

_“Will you ever leave me?” His fingertips tremble, evident against the sweat-slick skin._

_“Perhaps I will, perhaps I will not," he muses, words lingering and colliding and breaking into thousands of fragments upon the very tip of his tongue, swallowed back into a sore throat. "But it is my choice to make, is it not?"_

_His gaze pierces through him, bright and ever-clear azure as fingertips brush upon the bruised junction of his neck and shoulder, pressing lightly upon the marks he left there. "Perhaps," he echoes, "but it is merely the illusion of choice."_

“It’s only been two weeks,” Francis repeats, and Arthur spares him a glance. “And you know it won’t be long before he comes back to you.” 

The Gallian omega purses his lips, nails biting into his palms. This is nothing but a useless, monotone routine.

Love him from the sidelines, blinded by the light of his smiles and enraptured by his boisterous laughter. Let him pull you in, deeper and deeper into his embrace even as he gets rid of the air you need to breathe and fills your lungs with his words and broken promises, capturing your heart and staining your lips with kisses from a mouth that has touched countless others. Let him whisper words of love and affection into your ears and fan the flames of your ardor like he has done with dozens of other men and women alike. Love him fiercely, love him selflessly, love him unconditionally, even as he hurts others who try to fix you before he shatters every piece of you. Stay by his side even as he digs the knife deeper into your heart— _don’t leave me, Arthur, please, don’t, I need you—_ pick up the pieces of your shattered soul. And love him even still as he breaks you over and over and over again.

This has always been the routine. And he is tired of staying and letting him do as he pleases, of rinsing and repeating everything all over again and loving him too much and even that is never enough to make him stay but—

“And as always, you and I both know that you won’t say no.”

A humorless smile flickers across Arthur’s pale lips, then, and he looks up at his closest friend. 

“Then why bother?” It is phrased as an inquiry, but barely imbued with enough intonation to distinguish it as such. “Why bother even trying to warn me off from letting the resident playboy use me as he wishes?”

The scowl which mars Francis’ features brings the smallest flash of surprise in his dull, evergreen gaze. Arthur shifts, turning his head to regard his friend more closely. Pale skin drawn tight over clenched fists, tense shoulders drawn up defensively and bright blue eyes hard and stern— _oh,_ he’s surely pissed off.

“You’re an idiot, Arthur.” He says plainly, jabbing a finger right in the middle of the younger omega’s forehead. 

The recipient barely withholds a flinch at the touch—Francis hadn’t been all too gentle, after all—and his stare darts away in return. He draws his shoulders up, his frame taut with tension as his lips are pulled into a tight line. 

“You’re an idiot if you think that we don’t care, _votre majesté,”_ Francis says, his voice soft and so, so tired.

A hand cradles the Albian omega’s face, ever so gentle despite its worn fingertips from all of the spells and fights which yielded callouses upon what should have been a silken pair of omega’s hands. Arthur looks into those calm blue eyes, so stern and yet so kind, so tired and yet so determined, filled with concern for a man who doesn’t deserve even the smallest percentage of those emotions. And Francis smiles softly, stroking the arches of his cheekbones, gathering the tears which threaten to spill from those dull green eyes as Arthur begins to cry once more.

“It’s alright to cry, Arthur,” he murmurs, pulling him into his arms. “Crying is never a weakness.”

“I’m so tired, Francis,” he whispers, a sob bursting free from his control, wracking his fragile frame with unstoppable tremors. “I’m just—” he hiccups, wiping at his tears with the backs of his hands.

“Is this all I’m worth? Is this all I’m meant to be—some _plaything_ for alphas to toy with as they wish, given away as a form of insurance for some agreement I never agreed to?” Arthur looks down at his hands, then, at the callouses and scrapes adorning his fingers and palms. He focuses on his left hand, fingertips passing over his ring finger, as if searching for something that is not there.

He bites his lip, clasping his hands together, digging his nails into flesh. 

“I love him,” Arthur whispers, and he knows that Francis is listening, but he doesn’t care. He lets out a hollow laugh, tears blurring his vision, spilling past his control and down his flushed cheeks. “Oh, how I love him—the oblivious, completely insensitive prick he is. I love him, and yet I wonder—”

His voice slows, stuttering to a stop for a brief while, before a question, so soft and so heartbroken, leaves his lips.

“Does he even care about me?”


	2. they say before you start a war / you'd better know what you're fighting for

“Are you happy?”

Some will say that it is destiny, others will claim that it is something which has long been agreed upon due to both parties’ significant amount of influences and wealth. Some will call it fate, others will assume that it is but a romanticised notion—tying two prestigious lineages through a marital agreement is nothing but a contract in the end, after all, when it is done without the consent of those bargaining pieces involved.

A wry smile tugs at the very edges of pale lips, and a seemingly delicate hand brushes off the wary concern in the other man’s gaze. 

“Others will say that I should be,” he says as offhandedly as he can in return, and the frown he receives only deepens the unpleasantly forced curve to his mouth. “But you and I both know that not everything is as it should be.” 

Matthew merely responds with a strained smile, absolutely failing to ignore the way Arthur seems to be fixated upon the little black box their parents had given them both earlier on. It lies right in the exact center of the table between them, a seemingly insignificant little thing, and yet both of them know the true implications of what it contained, and of the matter resting upon both of their shoulders.

It has been decided, after all—not only for the two of them, but for one other person who (fortunately or unfortunately, Arthur isn’t quite sure which is more befitting of the situation at hand) is noticeably absent from the chair which he customarily used whenever the Joneses paid a visit to the Kirkland Estate.

After a brief while, the alpha clears his throat, garnering the fleeting glimpse of the omega’s vivid green eyes as they regard him for a moment, before flitting away. “Arthur—”

_"Stop,”_ a single word, spoken in a tone so soft and so frail, so unbefitting of the usually stern young man leaves his lips, and Arthur lifts his gaze, meeting with Matthew’s own. “As much as I would, perhaps, deign to listen to whatever apology or plea or whatever that you’ve concocted in your mind, Matthew, this is not the time. We both know what this means, we have both known that it will always come down to this.”

He tips his head to a side, the smallest of smiles drawing attention to the unreadable glint of his eyes. “We are merely pawns on a chessboard. And this is the endgame.”

There is something in those eyes, in that voice—in the way that he slumps in such a defeated form so unlike his usually perfect posture, which breaks Matthew’s heart and gathers the pieces together to strengthen his resolve. There is something in those eyes, in the way that Arthur seems to wordlessly cry for help as he trembles and his tears threaten to break free, that urges Matthew to hold him close and never let him go.

Matthew had entrusted this man’s heart to another’s care once, having thought that in doing so, he would be happier. He had kept silent for Arthur’s sake, only staying in the shadows formed by his brother’s blinding radiance. 

His chair screeches in protest as he stands, making his way towards the motionless omega. Arthur regards him with an almost uncaring gaze, and yet— _and yet—_ Matthew can clearly see the defeat, the _helplessness_ , in his eyes. He comes to a stop before him, his features betraying the hurt which tears at his heart and soul. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” he says desperately, beseechingly, begging Arthur to see what was right in front of him. “You don’t—you don’t _need_ to tie yourself down to someone who—”

He stops, then, and he sees the quiet understanding, the vulnerability in the way Arthur averts his gaze. 

_You don’t need to tie yourself down to someone who doesn’t love you._

"I—I can't let him hurt you anymore," and Matthew looks into his eyes, his hand reaching to stroke his cheek and he leans in, his lips brushing the lightest caress upon the omega's forehead. Arthur watches as he withdraws, his free hand reaching for the little black box upon the table—the ultimatum, the very means towards the fulfillment of the agreement between two powerful families.

_I can never be free. I can never be satisfied. I can only love, but I can never be loved by the one I love most._

_Is there a more hopeless existence than mine? Is there anyone who hears my pleas? If so, please, grant only a single wish from me. Just once, just a tiny, insignificant thing._

"I know, that you don't love me," Matthew smiles, a soft little thing which has Arthur's heart aching, "I know, that you might never love anyone else aside from my brother. I know, that said that I’ll wait for you. I know, that I promised I’ll care for you as I always have, and I always will.”

_The first time Arthur Kirkland met Matthew Jones, he had been seven years old, and he had mistaken the six-year-old as his younger brother. And Matthew had only laughed, saying that it was a normal occurrence, and that Arthur shouldn’t bother with apologising to him, for he was already used to it. (He was used to being overshadowed by his more exuberant, more outgoing, more playful twin.)_

_And yet in spite it all, Arthur only offered the smallest, yet most beautiful smile he ever gave to anyone._

_“I’m still apologising to you,” he had insisted, “because you’re not your brother, but that doesn’t make you in-fe-ri-or”—he had had troubles pronouncing more advanced words at the time, but he had never seemed to mind—”to him, Mattie.”_

_Matthew had only watched with wonder as the young omega had grinned brightly, turning away to go in search for his missing twin. “It just makes you more unique. And I think that’s something to be proud of, don’t you think so, too?”_

He reaches for his hand, holding it as if it is the most precious thing he'll ever get to hold in his lifetime. He brings it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to his calloused fingertips, so tried by sheer resilience and diligence, as he gently slides the aged ring upon Arthur's finger. 

"But I love you," Arthur watches, then, as a tear falls from Matthew’s bright eyes. "And I can't let him hurt you anymore."

_I'll save you, even when you don't want to be saved._

“This time around, let me be the one who stays by your side." 

_This time around, let me be your hero—just like how once upon a summer day when we were children, you saved me from myself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from the song, _"Angel With A Shotgun"_ by The Cab.

**Author's Note:**

> the fic title comes from a Fall Out Boy song entitled, _Our Lawyer Made Us Change The Name Of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued_.


End file.
